Chapter 7 - Emory

"Thank you so much for coming in, Kevin. I really hope this will help you start to feel more prepared for the unexpected. You're doing great, okay?"

My patient nodded, his expression still tight with anxiety, and I patted him on the shoulder.

"I'll see you next week, okay?"

"Sure thing, doc. I'll see you then."

I smiled, shaking my head at him. "You know I'm not a doctor, Kevin. But thank you. I'm hoping to get my doctorate next year."

"I know you'll do great. That's why I'm already saying ‘doc.'"

I grinned. "Thank you."

We gave each other a soft smile, and I watched Kevin walk down the hallway back to the reception desk. He'd schedule his next appointment while he was still here because he always did. It made him feel more prepared since the guy had a heaping dose of anxiety disorder.

And likely some undiagnosed ADHD. Hell, I wonder that about myself sometimes.

With a sigh, I turned back into my office and shut the door. I needed to type up the notes about Mr. Kirby's session, and I was happy that he felt like they were helping. He'd been so concerned about staying on top of tasks, and his anxiety was making him basically lock up and freeze.

Executive dysfunction can be a real bitch.

I sat down at my desk and began typing up what I'd scribbled down in my notepad. Things were looking up for the guy, and I felt we were making real progress. It was nice to know that my work was actually benefitting someone, and as I typed up the things I'd jotted down, there was less to add from my internal thoughts this time.

Kevin was a genuinely nice guy, and it was just that damn anxiety that was getting him down. He'd give you the shirt off his back if you needed help; he was just that sort of person.

I saw a lot of myself in the guy, really. We were both textbook people pleasers. At least I'd found a way to keep myself from bending over backward for anyone who asked. Kevin still needed to work on that. He'd have much less on his plate if he weren't overextending himself.

Ring, ring, ring.

Looking over to the left, I noted that my desk phone was ringing and cocked my head. There weren't a lot of people who'd call me during the day, and I was a bit curious about who it might be.

As I picked up the receiver, the caller ID finally went through, and I had to stifle a groan.

Fuck. Dad is calling.

My entire body went rigid, and my years of training—along with a heaping dose of common sense—were enough to tell me just how excited I was about talking to the man.

I knew the discomfort I felt about speaking to them was partly my fault. But it seemed that as much as I knew what I should do to improve my relationship with my parents on paper, I was finding it exceedingly difficult to actually do it.

"Hi, Dad. You're calling early."

Being a surgeon, my father's hours were sporadic and rarely stayed the same from week to week. My mother's were worse since she worked in the ER, but I could usually count on them to call at night.

"I'm in between shifts. How is the first week flying solo?"

My shoulders tensed. For as nice and normal a question as that sounded, I knew it was loaded. Dad was looking for any reason to get me to leave psychiatry and become a real doctor. Hell, at this point I think he'd settle for me being a dentist. But that wasn't going to happen.

I'd spent too much of my life in hospitals to want to start a career in one. And it wasn't just my parents' hours that had kept me there. Familiar panic crawled up the back of my throat, and I had to breathe myself down from the edge.

You're okay, Emory. You're fine. Healthy and fine.

"It's great, Dad. No complaints."

"Oh, really. Well, your mother says hello." There was a pause where I knew he was looking for me to fill in the silence, and I forced myself to bite my tongue instead of compulsively speaking. "When are you coming home for dinner?"

I signed, switching the receiver to my other ear as I leaned back in my chair. "I'm not sure, Dad. I have several clients this week, and I need to make sure my notes are ready before coming in the next morning."

He scoffed that familiar Thompson grumble, and I knew I'd said the wrong thing. I wanted to take it back immediately, apologize, and promise to be over for dinner tomorrow or the next night.

"I—"

I had to stop myself. But dammit. Old habits die hard, and I was so used to doing everything I could to make them happy. It was never enough, though, and when I'd finally stopped doing what they wanted long enough to ask myself what I actually wished to pursue as a career, it was a real turning point for me.

I hated hospitals and blood, but helping people feel confident and mentally grounded fulfilled me.

And my parents were excellent at making me feel shitty about that.

"I'm sorry, Dad. But you understand how it is."

"Sure, sure. Well, I expect to see you this weekend. We're having the Millers over, and your Baba from Milan is flying in for your mother's promotion party."

My father was notoriously bad at texting, and apparently, he'd completely forgotten to tell me that Mom had actually gotten her promotion to Chief of Staff. She'd be out of the ER for the most part now, and it would be even more difficult for me to avoid seeing them every freaking day.

"Oh, she got the position. That's great. Well, okay. I'll try to make it to the party this weekend, but that's a bit of short notice. I might have some case notes to fill out."

Of course, I was not interested in seeing my mother and her stuffy doctor friends brag all night long, nor was I interested in watching my father do the same thing.

"Emory, it's your mother's special day this week. You can't expect her not to have her only child there."

My stomach clenched, and I was ready to just hang up the phone and let that be "future Emory's" problem. Being reminded yet again that I was the sole heir to their expectations wasn't what I needed right now. It wasn't my fault that it had been determined that having a second baby would be a risky move.

You'd think they would understand that as doctors familiar with the odds of genetics and medical conditions. Still, that was apparently asking too much of them. And they were so rooted in their traditional ways that I'd been expected to follow in their enormous shoes upon birth. Hanging up really would have been the easier route.

But I just couldn't.

"I…I'm sorry. Of course, I'll be there."

I could hear him clap in the background because my father perpetually took calls on speaker. "Excellent."

"And try to dress up this time, dear. Oh! And bring someone, for Christ's sake. How am I going to become a grandmother when you never date."

All the blood left my face when I realized that my mother had been there the entire time listening. Seriously? Like this couldn't get any worse?

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying my best to hold in the sigh that threatened to escape. Wouldn't she be thrilled to learn that I'd finally lost my V-card? And to a one-night stand, no less.

"Of course, Mother. I'll do my best with a new dress. I'm not seeing anyone, though. As per usual."

And children were decidedly out of the picture. Leave it to my crappy upbringing and associated health concerns to bury that possibility in the dirt. I was on the best IUD birth control insurance could provide, and that puppy was keeping me free and clear for the next five years.

"Darling, how is it possible that you still don't have a boyfriend? You're not some lesbian or something, are you?"

I couldn't hold back the sigh after that one. Another unfortunate stereotype that my traditional, wealthy parents adhered to was homophobia, and I was so very sick of hearing the bigoted things that flew out of their mouths without warning.

"Mother, I'm not having this conversation with you again. I'm not interested in dating. I'm too busy. But I'll do my best to attend the party and support you. Congrats on the promotion, by the way."

An exaggerated sigh left her, and then there was the sound of heels clicking against the floor. I had a feeling she'd walked away, and after a brief shuffling sound, the volume of my father's voice got much louder, and I knew he'd picked up the phone.

"Be at your mother's party, Emory, and please consider what you're doing to her because you're so stubborn. We have a family name to carry on…traditions. It's not every day that two doctors who are tops in their field and come from long lines of successful ancestors create a family. You have an obligation."

Yes, I'm aware. You never let me forget.

But I wasn't about to say that, now was I? Standing up to them had never been something I ever believed I'd actually do. So, I just structured my life to make dealing with them as stress-free as possible.

Coping mechanisms, thy name is Emory.

"I'll do my best, Dad. I promise."

"Of course, you will. We expect nothing less."

Damn, that was the truth. "Talk later."

I hung up—finally—before the conversation could get any worse. When I looked at the clock, it was just after twelve, and I decided that an early lunch sounded like a great fucking idea.

Getting up from my desk, I grabbed my purse. I left my office, being sure to lock up behind me, before heading down to the reception desk to tell Antoinette I was going to lunch.

The stillness of the hallway felt so different compared to the nonsense swirling through my brain about the phone call with my parents. It was always the same with them, though. I did my best to stand up to them, to speak for what I wanted or was capable of, and they just steamrolled all over me.

And I let them.

Antoinette was at the desk as I walked up, clicking away on her computer to make sure the scheduling was in order.

"Hey, I'm going to lunch. I'll be back in an hour, okay?"

She looked up with a smile. "Oh, sure thing, Emory. Oh, before you go…"

Digging through a little stack of notes next to her phone, Antoinette took a moment to find the one she was searching for. I'd told her to just type into the computer while she was on the phone, but this was how her brain worked, and it would just cause more trouble now if she tried to change her routine.

"Ah, here we go." Antoinette read over the quick scribbles she'd left for herself. "Mr. Kirby is scheduled for next week at the same time. Dr. Rogers signed off on the prescription recommendation for Ms. Brown. And Mr. Ustinov scheduled his next session for next week on Wednesday."

The half-hearted listening I was doing slammed to an abrupt halt as I realized she'd said Vlad's name.

"I'm sorry. Mr. Ustinov scheduled?"

Antoinette read over her notes again like she was worried she'd misspoken. "Umm, yes. He called and scheduled for Wednesday. Why? Is that not going to work?"

I shook my head. "No, no. That's fine. I just…I'll be honest, I didn't think he was going to. He had that one-and-done vibe, you know?"

Nodding, the receptionist offered me a gentle smile. "Well, maybe you're just that good. He obviously enjoyed speaking with you, and now he wants to come back."

Laughing, I hiked my purse strap up my shoulder again and patted the desk. "Let's hope that's what it is. See you in a bit."

"See you when you get back, Emory."

As I left the building, my steps were lighter. If my parents were still going to be their usual selves, it was nice to see that the universe was being nicer with Vlad.

Maybe I really got to him. Huh. Go, Emory.